


Mendicant's Court(ing)

by PhoenixUnknown



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Compliant, An inspired gift fic thats honestly self indulgent for me, I dont think Auliander's Carrd has a reference for what he's wearing in this fic, I took liberty with the passing of time, Ishgard Restoration, M/M, NPC/OC - Freeform, WoL mentioned, but he's been wearing it a lot and its been killing me not so softly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-02-08 11:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21475228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixUnknown/pseuds/PhoenixUnknown
Summary: He had been there from the start. From when the Skybuilder's board was first raised, to the final laying of planks of the Courts' working stalls... Observing Lord Francel in his quiet determination, filled with faith but touched with shy uncertainty. Being watched in return with growing curiosity and longing.
Relationships: Francel de Haillenarte/Auliander Zielione
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by Auliander Zielione's mun, and is a gift to them as well.  
This work takes place as part of an Alternate Universe and is not part of anyone's working canon.  
The details of what particular AU of mine this will be a part of is undecided in regards to Heavenswards' events.  
Permission to post was granted.  
Link to Auliander Zielione's Carrd: https://auliander.carrd.co/#art  
Image art made by Auliander.

It was late into the night when Overseer Francel de Haillenarte received word of the final concerted works completion. The speed with which the Ishgardian laborers worked was astounding, and it had barely given him time to gather the blueprints and spreadsheets for the next announcements to come. Naturally he was in a rush to visit the work site and speak with his Foreman; the project board needed to be updated and inventory needed to be tracked--by the time he had gotten there he was breathless and his mind a whirlwind. It all came to a standstill but for his heaving chest when he entered the project site, it was true; the concerted work was completed, but laborers still continued to work, and those adventurers allowed (not least including the Warrior of Light) were already contributing to the next stockpile. The supplies were minimal but growing as Potkin accepted turn ins and logged them over his forms. The line grew, and dwindled, and then grew again. 

All around him rose the call of hammers against anvils, and files on wood. He heard the dull scrapping of leatherworkers conditioning canvases and hides. Poignant smells of woodburning stoves and alchemical concoctions intermingled with cut cedar and pine plank piles. He watched, and watched, and watched. His heart skipping as he looked at each laborer and their hard wrought work. Some faces unfamiliar, some  _ very _ familiar (seriously, it's almost like the Warrior never left after being shown in a few mornings back…), and others--a near mix between the two. Specifically, a tall Duskwight that Francel was not confident he knew the name of; but one he had certainly seen even before the project commencement. The man was tall, his skin dark and smooth under the fire light of the few braziers they had. This one had been showing up to the work site frequently after the restoration was announced, and he fair stood out amongst the artisans present; he was well dressed at all times in a slim fitted suit which seemed perfectly tailored to every ilm of his distractingly fit bod-- 

The Duskwight looks up in time to meet Francel's gaze, snapping him from his prior thought process back to a very startling reality. He'd been caught.  _ Again. _

Every single damn time he does this to himself, and he knows what it looks like; furtive at the very least, but Francel does not quite know what it  _ means _ . Every single time that man returns his gaze too; lidded and heavy and glowing gold. Taking what was salvageable of his pride, he strides (as confidently as he can manage) across the the Firmaments entryway and to the board where Augebert was waiting for him. He places himself strategically in a way where his back was turned to that handsome stranger in hopes of deflecting so hot a gaze. He can feel it at his back in such a way that it had him flushing brilliant red-his blush spread from the tips of his ears and down his neck. His project manager was unimpressed by his state, but resisted teasing his red faced look in favor of helping him post updates to the board.

The strangers name was Auliander Zielione, a researcher at current and proficient with needle and loom enough to have jumped at the chance of helping the Restoration. Having been assisting a younger, aspiring artist with their weaving--his current distraction now being one clumsy, young Lord Francel de Haillenarte. At present, Auliander did not care to think of the past surrounding the youngest of the Haillenarte family and chose instead to focus on what he could see in the here and now of the young man. That being a demeanor ever so sweet, manners polite as could be, and compassion near overflowing. From afar he found a young man equal parts aspirational and inspiring, as well as melancholic when he thinks no one is watching--and just then, when their eyes met; a young man more lonely than he is willing to admit. Perhaps, dare he think,  _ interested,  _ even,  _ pining.  _ Was Francel  _ attracted _ to him? Well, Auliander had been pondering this after the last several times he had caught the Overseer  _ watching _ . From what he had gathered in his own observations, Francel was not particularly bold, or forthright-not truly. It was not impossible… Auliander watches him closely even when Francel turns his back on him, the absolute picture of sheepish. Auliander pulls his gloves taut, lost in thought when he pushes away from the wall he had been leaning on… This tentative dancing around each other just would not do, and normally he would not be so presumptuous were it not so obvious now…

All through the duration of talking with Augebert, Francel had felt that heavy gaze at his back near unrelenting. When the next course of action was decided upon, and the appropriate plans updated he had resolved to meet that gaze more evenly at long last-perhaps try to be less  _ guilty _ about it. Alas, when he sought out that spot the tall, dark stranger had been-he saw only the weaver he'd been helping previously toiling away at a quickly lengthening sheet. Francel tried to peer around the Firmament as unobtrusively as possible with varying degrees of success. Not a hint of contrasting bond hair against strikingly dark skin, no fluttering maroon neck scarf hinting at sophistication, no knowing golden gaze gleaming over the rim of glasses perched low on the regal bridge of his nose...yet--his gatekeep insisted no one had requested leave.

So, Francel wanders. It is a path mostly meandering as he trails through groups of adventurers-turned-crafters and jovial hailing Ishgardian laborers. From the first completed east side of Mendicants Court after having startled children playing by the bars, to the west side where scaffolding still stood for more to come, and piles of stone were stacking up for the next push in the future further away. He trails close to the walls, walking between a pillar and to the bend in the stone wall where he was mostly out of sight; he could still see the workers toiling, and he could see the ripple of the cloth overhangs on the cooks tent in the Coerthan wind. Further to the right of it was another stall with a towering royal awning.

His back had barely touched the wall where he intended to rest and think when a hand takes him by the wrist and pulls him around the corner. He stumbles over the unplowed snow until he is suddenly chest-to-chest with the Elezan he had been ( not so secretly pining ) searching for. Francel had near given up, and perhaps assumed the other had grown tired of the odd gazes--maybe he was mad! Was this harassment? Had he inadvertently made this gentleman upset? Angry?  No… no that was not it… Those eyes which gazed into his own were bright and full of anticipation. A hand, while gloved-was warm and light where it slid down his wrist and into his palm, the white felt of his gloves heating with his mounting embarrassment and their intertwined fingers. The silence between them is filled only by the loud clash of metal which still reverberates all around them, it echoes off the stone walls and tells of the nearness of people--but here, and now feels private. The fog of their breath intermingles as Francel is pulled close, and still he cannot move for the too knowing gaze which has captured him. The name then comes to him at last from a murmured memory...

_ Auliander. _

Auliander slowly touches the gloved fingers of his other hand to the underside of Francel's jaw, trailing along the tautness there until his fingers slip behind one of Francel's ears and into his hair--fingers pressed just at the edge of his cavallier. At the tender touch, the tense muscles unravel and his mouth slackens near imperceptibly for a sharp intake of breath. He has unknowingly tilted his head into that warm touch and from there allowed himself to be guided into a kiss that made his heart flutter in his breast. Auliander's lips were soft over his own, hot compared to the chill around them, and breathtakingly sincere. With a weak tremble of his lashes, his eyes drift shut and he meets so sensuous a kiss open mouthed and unrepentant of the cascade of sensation and emotion it brought. The way Auliander cradled his face felt near reverent, and the warmth from it inexorably blossoming in his belly was heady. It was a wave which overcame his deep rooted loneliness, touched with a hint of innocent curiosity in each other, and undisturbed by tongues marking an encounter too impassioned. 

Perhaps... a promise of a tomorrow. 

A lingering feeling of, ‘ _ I see you,’  _ and a resounding note in their hearts, ‘ _ I will be seeing you.’ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work takes place as part of an Alternate Universe and is not part of anyone's working canon.  
The details of what particular AU of mine this will be a part of is undecided in regards to Heavenswards' events.  
Permission to post was granted.  
Link to Auliander Zielione's Carrd: https://auliander.carrd.co/#art
> 
> Writing this was just as much of a recharge as that hug was for Francel.

* * *

It had been merely a glimpse from the corner of his eye, almost imperceptible; but he was discerning, and thus stopped in his tracks by it. A flash of bright flaxen hair contrasting against shadowed skin, standing out against the grey stone and falling snow. Lord Francel had come to survey the clearing of the Mattock, gauge the reactions of the Diadem exploration and resources acquisition, and maybe-just maybe catch a glimpse, that sign he had been waiting on-and it was hard to resist. 

Deliberately, he follows after as sedately as he could manage, one glance towards his older brother; Aurvael, had him and Flotpassant averting their own gazes and distracted many on-boarding Adventurers. Whilst his siblings were somewhat flamboyant, dare he say eccentric, even they understood discretion, working with him now even they knew the duress he was under.

There was a dull hum of airships in the distance, the clang of hammers, smashing of rocks, and stripping of fabrics or leathers which seemed even more loud than ever. Francel could smell leather stains, asphaltums, and vaguely, cooking stews trying to mask the smell of construction at work.

Behind the pillar that shadow moved was a pocket of calm, familiar like when first they had been together here. Make no mistake, the cacophony, the din of sound still rang in his ears and yet at the same time, he could hear only his heart trying to beat out from his breast and his breath flutter tremulously in his lungs. The smile on master Auliander’s face seemed infinitely kind, the piercing gold of his eyes blossomed warmth in Francel’s chest such that the cold was being banished then, and there.

“Master Zielione,’ the name comes almost breathless off his lips, ‘Auliander…” This time, touched with relief, something palpable that let his shoulders finally fall and ilm or two for how tense he had been.

The regal lines of Auliander’s face seem to soften, his eyes a warm glow and glitter in the dull grey light of Ishgard with his budding fondness. He can see the shadows beneath Lord Francel’s deep blue eyes, unable to remain caught in that soulful blue gaze overlong for the detracting wariness that permeated the young Lord. Auliander is reasonably hesitant at first, glancing past Francel and at Lord Aurvael from over his shoulder, who meets his gaze seriously before deliberately, slowly, turns away. No one was looking for Lord Francel, everyone was being suitably redirected. Auliander never thought he would be in such a situation as this; nobility acknowledging him, even (in a strange way) protecting him? This was, after all, their little brother, and yet Lord Aurvael did not even bat an eyelash--as if Auliander had every right to be here before Lord Francel de Haillenarte…. Dutiful, tired. They were without question for his presence, without judgement of concern seemed to present to him this ever soft, ever sweet Lord for him, all for him -- and _ oh _ , oh how it made his fingers itch and his palms fair _ burn _… the adoration in those eyes, a longing his calculated absence had brought upon the Lord. Perhaps a trifle mistake for how weary the young Lord appeared, he would not this time let their distance go overlong, for it was plain to see Francel would work himself twice or thrice over without his watchful gaze.

“Forgive me, my Lord.” Auliander intones, the ever gentle lilt of his voice causes Francel’s lashes to flutter.

The span of several heart beats later do they stand thus, together. Francel, unable to ask for what he wanted-nay, needed, and Auliander, biding his time to let that desire fester until Lord Francel’s desperation and discomfort became a taut thread in the air ready to be _ cut. _A nervous shuffle of his feet, but a fine trembling in his slim shoulders.

Auliander relented, soon, very soon Lord Francel would learn to ask of him. He would teach him, in time. For now, he held his arms out to the young Lord, and relished in how Lord Francel rushed into him, and how tightly did Auliander hold on to him. But _ God’s _he was as soft as always, tucked just beneath his chin, pressed against his jaw, a small nose brushing against his neck, the electric trill of a rosey mouth against his throat. That perky cavalier and it’s joyful yellow little feather forgotten and upturned on the icy pavement whence it fluttered in Francel’s exuberance to be near to him. The silky brush of amber and blond beneath his nose, softly scented of cedarwood and rose, perhaps. Something undeniably relaxing in this hold, with Lord Francel’s slender arms around his waist, hands flat against his back-inching up just below his shoulder blades as he tightens his hold. His own, all encompassing about his shoulders, looping down to the crooks of his elbows as he squeezes and Francel’s bends back with him as he leans forward. He can feel the rise of Francel’s chest against his own, their feet and legs near tangled, as their arms about each other.

_ And he can feel Lord Francel breathing easy, again. As though worry, and woe were banished at his very touch. An untold, hidden power of relief, a balm which unwound Lord Francel and intertwined them more irrevocably and inexplicably together all the tighter. _


End file.
